A Vault of Sins (2 page)

At three in the morning I’m curled on the couch, hugging a bowl of cereal between my knees. In my left fist is a beer. It’s warm—not because I’ve been drinking it slow, but because I pulled this one from the box. I forgot to put more in the fridge after I polished off the last twelve-pack.

The feed has been playing all night, my tablet projecting the image onto the wall space between an outdated family portrait and the front door. Watching the endless stream of news clips about me is a bit masochistic, but it’s better than the nightmares. Then again, anything is better than the nightmares.

This has become a nightly ritual. I can’t remember the last time three a.m. passed without me awake on this couch. My butt has created a permanent imprint in Mom’s cushion. If she’s noticed, she hasn’t said anything.

The news round table discussions are my favorite. They allow me to hate the reporters who loathe me and cheer on the ones who find me redeeming, like a game of sports.

“So let me get this straight,” says asshole number one. “The testimonies from the three Compass Room survivors state that the government dropped them off in the middle of the forest, forced them to face projections of the people they wronged or killed, and then brutally murdered off candidates in front of other inmates. Not only that, but then the Compass Room malfunctioned and,” he uses quote fingers, “
accidentally
killed off inmates who were innocent.”

The other reporters at the table nod.

“Honestly, I don’t even know how they were able to create a case out of this obvious lie.”

“Well, you have to admit, the document misfiled fourteen days early stating that Ibarra, Hargrove, and Crane were the determined innocent does raise suspicion,” says the female reporter. “As does the mysterious leak.”

The mysterious leak. The news stations have been all over this
mysterious leak
. Word had gotten to the press that a Compass Room malfunction had killed an inmate. There have been entire programs dedicated to tracking down the culprit, but no one has come even close to figuring out who tipped off the media, and why. The division refuses to hold a press conference on the matter until the trial is over.

“The leak means nothing,” says asshole number two. “Whoever contrived the misinformation is clearly working with the three survivors from Compass Room C to . . . to . . .”

“To what? To create a case against the division to get themselves thrown back in jail? That’s what Crane, Hargrove, and Ibarra are doing.” The female reporter glares at the other two like they’re idiots, and I kind of love her. “They’re trying to get the division to admit to a malfunction, which would prove they weren’t supposed to escape the Compass Room alive. Why would they do that?”

“Money!” Asshole number one slaps his hand against the table. “They could get a huge settlement from this.”

“Why would they need money if this would land them in jail?”

“People risk jail for money all of the time!”

“Feed, off,” I order, and the screen goes dark. It isn’t that I can’t handle the dialogue about my supposed greed, but I hear someone shuffling around in the kitchen behind me. It might be Todd. Mom doesn’t want the news on when Todd is in the room.

But it isn’t Todd. Mom sits on the couch and wraps her arms around me. Her hugs have become rather violent lately, like if she squeezes hard enough we’ll both be illuminated into realizing the present isn’t as terrifying as we both think it is.

She rests her chin on my shoulder. “You’ve been having quite a few breakfast beers lately.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply flatly, because I know I can’t fool her.

“I take out the recycling, Ev. I’m not an idiot.”

I wish I could explain to her that cereal and breakfast beers at three in the morning are the happiest part of my day, but it’s too depressing to voice out loud. Instead, I rest my head on her shoulder, and we sit together in the dark. This happens sometimes. Mom and I hug a lot more than we used to, but we still haven’t been able to find strings of words to go along with those hugs. But that’s okay, because somehow the silence says everything.

“Know how early we have to wake up to get you to D.C. on time?”

“An hour. I have to wake up in an hour.”

I start to laugh, and she joins in before sighing and standing up. “I’ll start the coffee.”

This trial is making her old. Every day passes and the lines on her face deepen, another gray lock streaking her hair. My mother is wasting away because of me. I try and piece together the right words to remind her how thankful I am, to spout out anything that will relieve her of the stress today and every day brings. I’m not quick enough; she’s already busying herself in the kitchen.

I get up and head through the narrow hall to my room and flip on the light switch. It’s only been my room for a couple of months. We moved to a quiet apartment in San Antonio after the paparazzi infested my old Phoenix neighborhood like roaches. Not even Todd was safe; Mom caught reporters harassing him at the bus stop and blew a gasket.

That morning made the front page of a popular tabloid:
Clara Ibarra
:
Cracking Under Pressure?

Liz, my lawyer, says that we should keep most of our things packed so we can be prepared to move on a moment’s notice. If the media gets a whiff of our location, we don’t want to stick around any longer than we have to.

I’ve gotten rid of most of my belongings. I’m left with only my linens, my clothes, and my old paintings. I kept my tablet and phone too, but only because Liz insists I must have an easy way to keep in touch with her; not to mention, they hold my only photos of Meghan.

This room is a representation of what my life has been since the trial has started. Bare walls and windowsills, empty, uninspired canvases stacked in the corner. Mom picked up my boring khaki-colored bedspread on sale at a department store. My room in college was splashed with color, so many clothes piled around my bed you couldn’t even see the floor. I remember when Liam stepped on a tube of acrylic paint and yellow exploded all over my favorite jeans. Screaming, I socked him in the shoulder, but before long we were laughing and making out on the bed.

Now, my paints are packed deep within one of the taped-shut boxes. I don’t know which one.

I lay out my blouse and pencil skirt on the bed and sit in front of the closet door mirror. I start my makeup. Everything is a strategy, including the pale pinks of my blush and lipstick.
Look as innocent as possible
. That’s the goal, although I’m not fooled into thinking that my pink lipstick will do anything to help my relatively shitty situation.

As I’m applying my makeup, my tablet pings, and I groan. I’m notified every time a news article about me pops up on the Internet. That was Liz’s idea too.
Always know what people are saying about you, even the rumors
.

This one I would have rather been oblivious to.

The photo is of Casey and me outside the courthouse. In the middle of being swarmed by reporters and ushered to a car by guards and our lawyers, someone caught him whispering into my ear.

Criminal Romance: What’s Really Going on Between Evalyn Ibarra and Casey Hargrove
?

The tabloids
really
need to figure out a different way to word article titles.

In the photo, his hand rests on my waist, his lips against my ear. I remember this moment, even though I can’t remember what he was telling me. He probably leaned in just so I could hear him over the screaming reporters. But regardless of what he was saying to me, regardless of whether or not the gesture was actually romantic, the image is poison.

If our romance gets out, we’ll be doomed in the eyes of the public. People will see us together and assume we’re conspiring with each other—two criminals in
looovvve
trying to take down the division.

I cannot be perceived as being with or screwing or loving Casey Hargrove.

Before I’m finished reading the article, which, lucky for me, consists of mostly speculation, I receive a message from Liz.

No more PDA.

She must have read it already.

I reply:
Whispering is hardly PDA.

Liz:
Whispering infers you have secrets. Secrets will ruin us.

I grit my teeth and glance away from my tablet, applying my mascara as violently as I can without poking my eye out. Yes, secrets will ruin me.

Not like it matters. People starved for scandal can speculate all they want about my secrets, but today will finally solidify the true image the public has of me. Gemma Branam is taking the stand, and we’ll also be given the final word on the investigation of the CR files. Everything in those files will prove that what Casey, Valerie, and I have been claiming is true.

I may be immoral, but at least I won’t be a liar.

I must have imagined thousands of different ways that today’s events would unfold, but none of them involved me chasing Valerie down a courthouse hallway.

I know where she’s headed. There’s a room upstairs where the three of us meet often with our lawyers—a safe room. Hardly anyone ever goes upstairs, so we have the place to ourselves, to collaborate and curse and yell if we have to, or hide out until the press has died down outside. But I don’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon, not with the way court went today.

I scream her name as she takes off up the stairs. She doesn’t wait for me. Casey’s minutes behind us, slowed by his screwed-up hip.

On the second floor, she flings open the door to the meeting room ahead. By the time I’ve reached her, she’s mid–panic attack, leaning against the windowsill on the opposite side of the room.

“Valerie . . .”

“How?!”
she screams, spinning toward me, her face flushed red. A tear trickles from the corner of her eye. “How . . . how is this happening to us?”

I want to give her an answer, to find a way to make sense of everything that just happened in the courtroom. Instead, I collapse onto the leather couch, cupping my hands over my face.

Gemma was prepared with diagrams and reports of our time in the Compass Room—a “virtual simulation center” where we underwent a month-long dream. She had enough fake information to convince the court that we were tested with virtual scenarios while we were strapped to comfortable recliners, unconscious, and in a sterile lab. Our reactions to our dream-like experiences were what determined whether we were given a humane lethal injection or survived another day.

Which is complete bullshit.

Not only that, but her forged reports also stated that while our Compass Room glitch resulted in early termination, there were no accidental deaths.

“If we had taken the deal, they would have admitted to Jace’s death.” Valerie paces the floor, and when I don’t respond to her, she slams her fist down on the nearest table.
“Fuck!”

I stand and walk to her, grabbing her wrists and pushing her up against the wall. “Val . . . Val, listen to me.”

Her jaw clenches, and her fists are balled so tightly that her knuckles are white, but she doesn’t try to fight me.

“They are trying to hurt you. They are trying to hurt
us
, to punish us for defying them and fighting to get the truth out. This isn’t your fault that they are getting away with lying.”

The door creaks open, and I know our lawyers have joined us. Casey finally limps in, and I leave Valerie and help him to the couch.

When Liz begins to pace, I know we haven’t heard the end of the bad news.

“Tell me you can prove that those reports have been falsified,” I beg. “Tell me that the investigation dug something up. Anything that can help us.”

“Evalyn . . .”

I sink down onto the couch next to Casey, because the way Liz says my name tells me everything. “Our investigators tore through all of the CR files. Everything mirrored the evidence Gemma brought to court. We have photos of the simulation centers she described. We have nearly infinite data on each one of your so-called virtual cycles.”

Casey squeezes my hand. “So you’re telling me that everything we went through . . .”

“It’s not possible.” Valerie clutches the windowsill tightly. “It wasn’t a virtual simulation. There is no fucking way what we went through was a virtual simulation. Is the entire world stupid enough to believe the obvious evidence? Casey’s hip was shattered, for fuck’s sakes!”

“They’ll find a way to write it off.” My voice cracks, and I lick my dry lips. The division will effortlessly override our testimonies with lies. This is how it’s going to end.

Liz exchanges glances with her team of solemn lawyers. “I . . . I agree with you. But we’re beyond that now. The trial is beyond that. We have to start making some decisions.”

Valerie slides down the wall, her face ghost-white and shining with sweat.

We’ve lost.

Casey holds my hand throughout the entire meeting. When Liz finishes, we’re left waiting for our cars to arrive at the back of the courthouse, granting us a safe, media-less exit. In the meantime, I retreat to the bathroom.

Thirty seconds pass before Casey gets the hint. When he enters the women’s room, I hop onto the marble counter. “How’s your hip?”

He slips between my legs and shuts me up with his mouth. I cross my ankles behind him and pull him as close to me as I can. In the brief moment we have, I relax into him and surrender. Holding him is the last straw, and suddenly I’m weeping, burying my face in his chest. He holds me and waits as I clutch the fabric of his dress shirt, until I’ve composed myself enough to say, “I’m so scared.”

“I’m fucking terrified.”

Someone clears their throat behind Casey. He pulls away, wincing at his own sudden movement. I wipe my face.

Valerie’s bloodshot eyes send a bolt of guilt through my abdomen, and I tuck my hair behind my ear. Casey and I exchange glances, his way of saying good-bye.

He leaves, and I hop off the counter and straighten my ensemble. My face is swollen and red. The crying will be impossible to cover no matter how much makeup I use.

Valerie exits the stall, and we stare at each other in the mirror before she dips her hands beneath the automatic faucet. “I promised someone very important that I’d fight for Jace.”

“It isn’t over.”

She nods, but it’s absent of all sincerity. We need a miracle to come back from this.

We need to find where the truth is hidden. But no one even knows where to look.